


skeletons in the water

by cthulu_sun



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Implied Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:34:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23431762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cthulu_sun/pseuds/cthulu_sun
Summary: He can’t quite bring himself to say grave. He doesn’t know why, exactly, just that the word seems too much. Maybe when he gets more used to going it’ll become easier to say, although it carries such a feeling of finality that he’s not sure it’ll ever be easy to say. Some words never are.(Perhaps the reason is more like this: Andrew is gone, and Aaron is not, and some days he thinks it should be the other way around. It’s hard to think about Andrew’s grave when he knows there should be one for him, somewhere. He’s already dug it inside of himself.)-andrew dies, and aaron is trying his best to live without him.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 54
Collections: AFTG Reverse Big Bang 2020





	skeletons in the water

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the aftg reverse big bang 2020, based on the absolutely amazing art by uzea-ke on tumblr! 
> 
> huge thank you to gluupor and gabriella for organising this and allowing me some very last minute extensions
> 
> some warnings: this fic deals very heavily with major character death and grief over this, as well as near death experience and trauma. there are slight references to suicidal thoughts (not too explicit but still there), and dissociation.  
> also some mentions of blood and very slight body horror 
> 
> the implied relationships are andrew/neil and aaron/kevin

The water is too cold.

Lately Aaron’s been avoiding this, especially with the anniversary coming up, but the shower’s broken and it’ll be a week before it can be fixed, so here he is, tentatively slipping his feet into the water. And it’s too cold. Cold enough to be uncomfortable, but not quite enough to justify the sudden shaking of his limbs. (Aaron feels rather as if his bones are trying to crawl out of his skin, but really when does he not feel too large for the body that holds him.)

More hot water. It’s scalding now, but the heat stops the worst of his shivering, so it’ll do. He slides in, huddled at one end of the bath with his arms wrapped around his knees, trying not to think. Trying to remember what breathing feels like. His mind feels slippery, all of a sudden. And maybe sitting in a few inches of still water without having a panic attack is progress, but at the moment it just seems kind of pathetic.

He wonders if Betsy would call it progress. Probably. Maybe he’ll tell her, this time. There’s so much to tell her, though; things like the amount of sleep he isn’t getting and the number of mirrors he hasn’t broken yet. Things like _I’m sorry_ and _do you miss him_ and _stop lying to me._ He hasn’t said much of anything to her, yet. Just empty small talk. But she says a lot, and seems happy to let him listen, so he thinks eventually he’ll work up to talking about it.

If he shuts his eyes tight enough, he can almost forget where he is. Could almost be curled up in the familiar comfort of his bed, a world away from all of this. He hasn’t been outside much this past year. If he shuts his eyes tight enough, it’s almost like he’s drifting, listless, in an endless void. Floating in empty space.

Aaron washes quickly and comes back to himself still standing in the bathroom, watching the water as it slowly drains out of the bath. Maybe it helps, seeing the water disappear. He’d thought it might, but staring at it doesn’t really seem to be doing anything, although he’s stopped shaking now.

He gets dressed with clumsy hands, avoiding the mirror above the sink. Last time Nicky was here he’d taken all of Aaron’s careful coverings down, half-hearted excuses on his tongue, and Aaron’s been too tired to put them back up.

His phone rings while he’s considering whether pouring cereal into a bowl is too much effort. The bath took up most of the energy he normally reserves for making food, and he can feel the heaviness dragging at his limbs, his head, his eyes. He feels so weak, and the phone is still ringing, too loud and incessant; Aaron looks and it’s Nicky calling, which could mean a number of things, but Aaron’s gut tightens anyway. 

“Hey,” Nicky says when Aaron answers, voice soft, as if Aaron is a wild animal that might run away if Nicky so much as moves. Honestly that’s probably pretty accurate, but Aaron clings to his pride like it’s the only thing still keeping him together, and so refuses to admit that he’s always running away from the things he doesn’t know how to handle. (As if he’s not made of dandelion seeds, just waiting for something to pull him apart.)

“What do you want?” he snaps, because he thinks maybe that’s what he would have done, before.

And Nicky sighs, because Aaron sounds too small to be like he was before.

“Have you eaten anything today?”

There’s no use lying. Aaron’s never been that good at twisting the truth, anyway, and Nicky’s surprisingly perceptive, when he needs to be.

“Not yet,” Aaron admits. He wants to slide into the floor. (The cold in his throat would be familiar, at least. He’s grown used to struggling to breathe.)

Silence. Aaron knows what Nicky’s about to do, about to say, because they do this every week. And it’s the same every week.

“I’m coming over,” Nicky announces, as he always does. “Don’t try to stop me!” he adds, before Aaron can even open his mouth to protest. So Aaron doesn’t try to stop him, because Nicky has a key and is far too invested in his general wellbeing to just leave him alone.

And then his world stops, for a moment, because Nicky says, “I’m bringing Neil,” and it pierces Aaron’s skin like a bullet.

Neil is a raw wound, still bleeding. Before, he and Neil were cold acquaintances at best, not quite at each other’s throats every time they were forced to see each other but pretty close. Somehow they’re more like tentative friends now, taking care of each other far more than they can manage to take care of themselves. Perhaps there’s just something about nearly dying together that can’t be undone. Neil and Aaron are connected through their skeletons, floating in the water.

Nicky asks him how his day has been. He wonders how Nicky would react if he said he only woke up an hour ago, and found himself in the bathroom with shaking hands, going through his breathing exercises from Betsy. Not well, most likely. But at least he’s got something else to say, something to distract Nicky with.

“Had a bath today,” he says quietly. Predictably, Nicky shrieks, and Aaron winces. Listens to him take a deep breath, dial it back into excited chattering. Maybe this is progress, after all, if Nicky is so animated about something so simple. Something so tiny.

Even so, it feels like Aaron’s scaled a mountain since he woke up. His tiredness runs bone deep.

One step at a time, he reminds himself. Betsy had told him that, in one of their earlier sessions; it’s okay if one step for you is nothing to anyone else. Sometimes recovery takes a long time, but being ashamed of what you’ve achieved is pointless. A step back. (Aaron’s so tired of walking backwards.)

Nicky’s still talking. Despite conversation with Aaron being similar to conversation with a wall at the moment, Nicky doesn’t seem to mind, filling the uncomfortable pauses when Aaron can’t think of anything to say with mindless chatter, of his husband, his co-workers, his friends. Aaron’s friends too, technically, but he hasn’t seen much of them recently. Kevin practically disappeared, after, refusing to answer their concerned calls or messages, though he does randomly show up on Aaron’s doorstep occasionally, drunk and swaying. Aaron tries hard not to think about that too much.

“And Allison nearly killed him- which, like, fair I guess? But it was still weird-”

“Nicky,” Aaron interrupts. “Hurry up.”

He hangs up. Drags himself over to the kitchen sink and washes the cups he’s taken to leaving there for convenience. The cupboard seems so far away, when he tries to reach for it. The cups get left on the counter; Nicky will deal with them, hopefully.

In the quiet, his radio crackles when he turns it on, moving back to his bedroom. He sits on the bed, listening to a monotone voice recite the latest news stories. It’s soothing, the repetitive sound. Not so loud that it’s uncomfortable, but enough to be a gentle murmur in the background. Enough to stop him falling asleep again.

Time wavers. Loosens. Moves like honey round him, to the point where he almost doesn’t notice the door creak open. Almost, because Neil could go anywhere silently, slipping in and out like a ghost, but he’s never been particularly subtle with Aaron.

“Hi,” Neil says, from the doorway. He lingers there, and Aaron rolls his eyes, gesturing for him to come in. When they’re both settled on the bed, Aaron leans against Neil, wondering if sadness can be transferred just through proximity. Some days it feels like he’s got enough regret inside him for the both of them.

“Nicky wants to know what you have in your fridge,” Neil continues, sounding vaguely accusatory, as if his own fridge isn’t permanently empty. They’re hopeless, the two of them. A pair of failures.

In answer, Aaron shrugs. Thinks. He doesn’t remember going shopping at all, but there’s a bell ringing somewhere in his brain. Katelyn was here yesterday, maybe. She didn’t stay long, he knows, because she’d had class, but he maybe remembers her making food for him. Whether he actually ended up eating it is questionable, because his throat had been tighter than usual yesterday. There’d been _something,_ he’s sure of that.

“Katelyn was here,” he says. It’s both an answer and an avoidance, and Neil shoves him. Gently, because these days he’s more fragile than he used to be.

Katelyn’s the closest thing Aaron has to a best friend. (Excluding whatever the fuck is going on with Kevin). They’re not together anymore, and he’s pretty sure she mentioned going on a date with a girl, when she was here, but somehow, they’ve managed to stay friends. Mostly because Katelyn is tenacious, and once she grabs hold of something, she’s reluctant to let it go. (She’d survived Andrew, after all).

When he and Neil join Nicky in the kitchen, Aaron notices flowers in a vase he didn’t even know he had. Tapping Neil on the shoulder to get his attention, he asks what they’re for. And Neil ages about a thousand years when he answers, “Andrew,” like that should have been obvious. Maybe Aaron’s just dumb.

There’s still a disconnect, here. A gap where Andrew used to be, and the distance where he isn’t anymore. It’s not like Aaron was ever even that close to Andrew, but his absence is a constant knife in his lungs. He covered up all the mirrors because he was tired of Andrew’s face staring back at him, impassive as ever. Now Andrew only exists somewhere between his reflection and his nightmares. Ever since he died, Andrew’s been following him, haunting him without even being here.

“Oh,” Aaron says. He swallows. “Are you going today?”

“Yup!” Nicky turns around to smile at him, dripping what looks like pancake batter on the floor in the process. “Wanna come?”

Aaron hasn’t been to Andrew’s grave since the funeral. At first, he didn’t have time, and then the guilt had swallowed him up, and it hasn’t let him go, yet. He should say no. He wants to say no. (But he’s so tired of walking backwards.)

“Sure,” he manages to say. The word slips out easily, like the coiled snake in his stomach is nothing. He wants to throw up. He wants to fall through the earth. He wants his brother, steady as old oak trees. Aaron has not allowed himself to want in a long time, and he is frozen, looking at Nicky’s shocked expression and Neil’s concerned one.

One step at a time. Possibly this one is a little too big, for now, but in the depths of his heart Aaron _wants,_ and it hurts but he’s always hurting.

“Okay,” Neil says, patting Aaron on the back. “We’ll go later.”

-

there’s a little girl crouched next to the barrier, shivering. (as far as you know everyone avoids the barrier, because it’s weird and creepy and being around it too long makes people feel strange. unsettled.) her wings are ripped, bleeding red into the earth, and the sight of it makes you stop, for a moment. time narrows as she lifts her head to look at you. she has eyes made of sunlight, and when they meet yours you are warm for the first time since you came here. since you died. were you ever warm before? it’s hard to remember. 

renee had told you, after you woke up frustrated and reaching for _something_ \- a name, a face, an intangible feeling that reaches inside you and wraps icy fingers around your lungs - that forgetting is normal. that one day even the things you have promised to keep safe will fade, and you will be a shade, a shadow, an emptiness where once there was a person. 

(so you hold onto the memories you have left, hoard them in secret because you’re not sure when they will leave you. everything does, in the end.)

it’s raining, again. sometimes you wonder if the rain will ever stop, if you are the only one with endless sadness that follows you everywhere you go, or if the rain is never just yours, but instead a reflection of everyone’s sorrow. perhaps this is where all memories go, in time. 

you don’t know how long the girl has been out here in the rain. too long, probably. the rain is heavy. cold. you sit next to her because you’re curious, that’s all. you ask for her name because you want to see how much she remembers. (it’s not because you’re concerned. it’s not because she looks so lost and fragile and alone, you tell yourself, because this is no place for kindness).

she shrugs when you ask. the barrier shifts with her movement, and a piece of it breaks off. she reaches up to catch it, holding it gently against her chest.

 _why are you here, all alone?_ you want to ask. you don’t, because she presses her hand against the barrier and it ripples beneath her touch. something moves on the other side, and an eye opens under her fingers. inside you a bell is ringing. 

the eye makes your skin itch; discomfort gnaws at your tongue. a sound spills out around you, quiet enough to be almost eclipsed by the rain, and you realise the girl is humming, rolling the barrier piece between her hands. the eye is watching her intently, and something about the way it moves is immensely disturbing.

your hands twitch. you wonder what the eye would look like with a knife stuck in its centre. 

(and then you remember renee, curled up on the floor with her head in her hands, shaking. and you, watching. frozen, because in that moment, hearing renee whisper about trying and being enough and hope and the terror that only comes when death lingers in your bones, something had gripped you tight enough to hold you in place, a black hole of unrestrained want. renee could have been you, in another world. you could have been her, trying so hard and yet hurting so deeply. it’s a strange thing to long for, but you had wanted so much it grew roots and buried you in the ground.)

the girl is still bleeding, though she doesn’t seem to notice. your heart is stained blue but you ask, anyway, if you can touch, when she nods gently you brush your fingers through her wings. they come away sticky. you’ve only done this once before, when renee was so sick she couldn’t move, and you’re not really sure that what you’re doing is good, right now, but you groom her wings as best you can. 

there’s water, in your pockets. not quite as heavy as rain, but clean. it would collect in the air if you’d been dreaming too long, and you shaped it into stars and hid them in your clothes so that renee wouldn’t ask. you pull one out, shake it in your palm, and clean the blood from her feathers, though the wounds are deep. you wonder what happened to this tiny little thing, sitting by herself in the rain. 

“do you know how to get home?” you ask. it’s not because you’re concerned.

(or maybe you are. bee used to ask you why you hated liars so much when you were the one who was lying the most. at the time you’d said she didn’t understand. now you think it was you who refused to understand, all those years. hurting for others is not the same thing as just hurting.)

the girl shrugs, again. her eyes are colder. absently you remember the sun, and how much you miss it now that you’ll never see it. and then she tugs your arm, (something so small shouldn’t feel so vast), and you are falling backwards, until your back hits soft grass.

sunlight.

it’s warm, inside the barrier. the rain bites into your skin though, incessant as ever; even the barrier grieves. the girl stands above you, wings spread wide. she’ll hurt herself like that, you think, but you can’t speak suddenly. your voice scratches at your throat, words like broken glass, and you stop. swallow around knives in your mouth. 

_here,_ the girl says. her voice is made of earth. she taps her foot on the ground and you notice she’s not wearing shoes. she’d had them a moment ago, hadn’t she? your head swims, and the sound of ringing bells sits in your ribs like a stone. 

(the eye looks different from here, when you see it, still watching. smaller. timid).

the sunlight cracks, the rain shrieks, and you shiver, lying there on the floor. you close your eyes. it helps settle the pounding of your heart a little, and you selfishly wish that you didn’t have to be alone. you long for the company of people you almost don’t remember anymore. 

“here?” you ask. you haven’t been warm in so long. the feeling is painful. overwhelming. 

_home,_ the girl whispers, and you sort of understand. only sort of because this is the barrier, and you weren’t aware the barrier was a place at all. it doesn’t feel much like a place, either, like if you concentrated hard enough you’d be back where you were, sitting next to the girl and trying very hard to be someone you’re not. 

you should have just left her alone and gone home. renee’s probably worried. is likely pacing next to the window, drinking tea. 

(you open your eyes, and the barrier is gone). 

the girl is in front of you, smiling. her teeth are too long. she tosses the barrier piece up in the air, and you reach out to catch it before it can land on your face. it feels slippery, like holding soap. like holding water. 

_keep it,_ she says, and then she disappears. you stand there staring at nothing for a long time. too long. renee’s probably given up on you, lost cause that you are. 

and yet when you arrive home, finally, soaked to the bone, renee is there waiting for you by the door. something in you must have changed, because the sight of her bright, soft smile when you greet her is enough to settle the unease in your stomach. at least until she looks down to your hand, still clutching the barrier piece like if you let go a part of you will go with it.

she freezes, eyes wide, and you try to ignore the way your heart leaps into your throat. your fingers slowly uncurl, and the piece drops to the floor; the sound rushes through you like a bullet, pulling your skin from underneath.

you fall.

later, when you are seated on the best chair, wearing dry clothes with the barrier piece tucked safely in your pocket, renee explains.

“her name is robin,” she starts. takes a sip of tea. “she guards the barrier.” 

you raise an eyebrow. the idea of the barrier needing a guard seems ridiculous. unnecessary. renee gives you a _look_ when you voice this thought, as if you’re the one being dumb.

“she’s not guarding this side,” renee tells you, and your blood runs cold.

the place the two of you exist in is somewhere between life and death. it’s not quite an afterlife, but it’s _something,_ and a lot of people get stuck here because they’re not ready to leave. not ready to forget. the barrier separates you from the afterlife, or so you’ve heard. 

“you could just tell me what the problem is,” you say, “instead of being needlessly dramatic.”

renee sighs, rolling her eyes. it’s immensely satisfying. she doesn’t like it when you hide your fear, you’ve found, and even when you try your best to let nothing show somehow she can always tell. sometimes she reminds you of bee, in her determination to break you open and peer at your insides. it’s become less uncomfortable, with time.

“if you’ve seen her now it means you’ll move on soon.”

and everything stops, for a moment. (everyone knows you pass through the barrier when all your memories have gone.) the room spins in lazy circles, and you are numb. cold.

“i don’t want to,” you admit, quiet and fierce. it’s hardly a secret, after all; everyone here is too attached to the people they used to be to move on. but it feels shameful, to cling so desperately to something you can never have again.

(how foolish you are. death has nothing to do with want, and you may have bargained with it too many times. one moment you are living, and the next you are not. it is simple; there is no want. only emptiness. only regret.)

your dream that night is a memory, again. technically you don’t really need sleep, but you like remembering, even when you dream your worst memories. this is one of the better ones, though; you can tell because the boy is here. 

you’ve lost the boy’s name to the rain already, but you’re not sure you can forget him completely. his hands are so warm, on your stomach. you can feel the heat of him seeping through the fabric of your shirt, and you lean back into him just to feel him hold you tighter.

it’s so quiet here. the world could fit between your bodies, pressed together. the two of you are sitting on his bed, reading through a russian textbook. his chin rests on your shoulder.

you miss him like you miss breathing. you wake up and your body feels too heavy to keep upright, so you lie there, unmoving, until renee knocks on the door. you’re too cold. it’s always so cold without him.

-

Aaron visits Andrew’s grave and it’s not bad, exactly. Not as bad as the funeral, definitely, but he’s not really sure he can call it a step forward either. More like a step sideways. A step into the middle of nowhere, but still. It’ll make Betsy happy to know that he’s trying. Maybe she’ll tell him she’s proud of him again, like she did the first time he called her to set up an appointment. He doesn’t think anyone had told him that before. It was strangely nice. 

There are a few other people in the graveyard, scattered here and there, but the overall atmosphere is an overwhelming kind of peace. Suffocating, almost. Aaron wonders where all the sound is going, because it seems like the ground swallows their footsteps as they walk, or the sky has swallowed the birds, or the plants have swallowed the wind. Dragged it down and tied it to the earth. The silence is unnerving. Stifling. 

Neil places the flowers down and sits next to the grave, head tilted back and eyes closed. There’s an uncomfortable ache in Aaron’s chest, seeing Neil so completely at ease. He comes here every week, unlike Aaron who had spent so long worrying he wouldn’t survive it that he doesn’t know what to do now that he’s here. Doesn’t know how to act. 

“Normally we just sit for a while,” Nicky says, from behind him. Aaron tenses, forces himself to relax, and turns to see Nicky motion towards the grave. “Keeps him company for a bit, at least.”

The quiet is unbearable. It feels like Aaron could hear his heartbeat, if he strained hard enough. He wonders how the two of them can stand this, week after week. Maybe it’s something you just get used to. Neil must be fairly used to silence already though; he’d been dating Andrew, after all. But Nicky is naturally noisy. It’s probably hard for him to keep his mouth shut. (Or perhaps there’s just something about death that makes you quiet).

Aaron is shaking. A bath and Andrew’s grave in the same day was probably too ambitious, but he _wants_ so viciously it hurts more than coming here is carefully not hurting. Being outside like this, somewhere that isn’t a part of campus or the park Katelyn will occasionally drag him to, is probably progress by itself. 

There’s water, somewhere nearby. All Aaron can hear is the waves, crashing against rocks. He looks down and the ground is spinning, round and round and round. Round and round and round. Are those his feet? They don’t feel like his. This body doesn’t really feel like his, right now, and then the ground is rising to meet him and he can’t feel anything, anymore. Coming here was a bad idea.

In the distance he can hear NIcky’s voice, soft and pleading. It sounds distorted, like Nicky’s underwater, or - no. That’s not right. Aaron’s the one underwater, being pulled down, down, down, unable to move. Unable to breathe.

(He comes back to himself slowly, in pieces. He’s not in the graveyard, but he doesn’t recognise where he is. Nicky’s next to him, and Neil is nowhere in sight.

“Ready to go home?” Nicky asks. Aaron nods.

So overall it’s not really a great success, but he’s improved since the funeral. Visiting is still progress, regardless of the outcome. At least, he hopes so.)

When Aaron arrives home Kevin is leaning against the door, drunk again despite it being only late afternoon. His cheeks are flushed and he’s missing a shoe, but he brightens a little when he sees Aaron. (It makes Aaron’s stomach tighten, makes his heart race a tiny bit faster. He hates that Kevin can only visit him when he’s drunk. Hates that Kevin makes him feel like this in the first place.)

He opens the door and helps Kevin inside, because he’s weak and tired and lonely. It’s been a while since Kevin was here last time this happened, and Aaron is slightly worried that he might have stopped eating again, because he feels alarmingly light. He knows that Nicky sometimes invades Kevin’s home and cooks for him, like he does with Aaron, because Nicky tends to be very vocal about his concern. Often Dan will go with him, but Aaron’s not sure how much the rest of their friendship group really see Kevin now. Maybe he does this with everyone. Aaron’s hardly special.

He dumps Kevin on the couch and brings him a glass of water. Kevin blinks at him, then the water, and picks it up slowly.

“It’s not poison,” Aaron tells him.

“I know,” Kevin mutters, and drinks. The water won’t do much, at this point, but it’s better than Kevin rummaging through his cupboards looking for more alcohol. Aaron doesn’t actually have any at the moment anyway, thank fuck, but Kevin will probably try eventually, when he’s bored enough. 

“Have you eaten today?”

Kevin shrugs. Aaron’s going to take that as a no. He doesn’t think he has the energy to make anything, and normally he’d just order pizza (or conveniently forget to eat, depending on the day) but Kevin would doubtless complain about how much fat pizza has and how bad it is for him or something. As if Kevin has any right to talk about healthy eating habits. Still, Aaron will try his best, because it’s always been easier to look after other people than it is to take care of himself.

He starts cooking pasta, because it’s simple and easy and shouldn’t take too long, and hopefully Kevin won’t complain about it too much. Kevin comes into the kitchen after a while with the empty glass, and sits on the floor, hunched over himself. Aaron’s so tired. 

“Why are you here?” he asks. He tries not to think about Kevin too much, but he asks this every time, because it’s a safer thing to ask when Kevin’s too drunk to remember it. He can almost imagine hearing Andrew call him pathetic and spineless and ridiculous, for being like this. Though he might have been surprised at Aaron being like this over a boy. It certainly caught Aaron off guard, but it’s more annoying than anything else, now. Just a reminder of his failures.

Kevin stands and wraps his arms around Aaron’s waist, hugging him from behind. “Dunno,” he says. “Just - missed you, I guess.”

What the fuck. He’s never said that before. Never done this before, either. 

“What are you doing?” 

(Hopefully he doesn’t sound as flustered as he feels).

“It’s cold,” Kevin whines, and Aaron hates him so much. “What’re you making?”

“Food.”

It’s almost done, and while this unexpected affection from Kevin would be great at literally any other time, he’s kind of in the way. So Aaron elbows him in the gut to get him to move, ignoring the offended glare he receives. Kevin is quickly appeased when handed a plate of food, though.

Aaron turns on his radio and finds a random station with voices just boring enough to be suitable background noise. It helps calm his heartbeat, too, which has been far too fast since Kevin decided the best way to combat the cold was to hug him, as if physical affection is normal for them. Maybe Kevin thinks it is.

“You’re not eating?” Kevin asks. Aaron shrugs.

“Later,” he promises. Trust Kevin to worry about him eating properly even though Nicky visits Aaron as much as possible, and Katelyn is always fussing over him. 

Surprisingly Kevin manages to finish the whole plate. Aaron had been expecting him to get through about half of what was there before giving up, and he feels somewhat relieved that Kevin’s eaten relatively well right now, at least. This must be how Katelyn feels whenever she comes over and he’s already up, waiting for her to force him into eating the fruit she’s brought with her. 

After he’s cleaned everything up Aaron makes Kevin drink another glass of water, then leaves him on the couch when he complains about being tired.

“Sleep,” he says. It’s not late at all, but Kevin is an old man and likes to sleep early. “Do you have class tomorrow?”

“Maybe.”

Which means Aaron will probably have to wake him up in the morning at some unreasonable time. The only upside to this is that he’ll actually get to see Kevin in the morning, instead of waking up only to discover that he’s disappeared. It’s such a little thing to be hurt by, and it happens regularly enough that he should be expecting it, but somehow he’s always surprised when Kevin just - 

leaves. 

One day Aaron will learn how to turn Kevin away, but at least this way they still see each other. He’s not sure how comfortable he’d be forcing himself into Kevin’s space, instead of the other way around. 

Katelyn calls, a little later in the evening. Her voice sounds like sunshine.

“Hey,” she says, as bright as ever. “Just wanted to make sure you’re doing okay.”

Aaron doesn’t remember the last time he felt _okay._ He wonders how to tell her, but stops himself. Betsy said once that preventing thoughts like this can help. All of the small things help. (Katelyn must know, anyway, that most days it feels like he’s just sleepwalking back to the water, over and over again.)

“Could be better,” he admits quietly. Thinks. “Could be worse, too.”

He was worse yesterday. Yesterday he couldn’t get out of bed, and today he’s done a lot. Or very little, really, but Aaron is world-weary and doing anything feels like an achievement sometimes. Betsy always tells him that nothing is too small to be proud of, and Aaron _knows_ that, he does, but it still feels like he’s making everything too much of a big deal. Katelyn won’t think so, though. Katelyn’s always proud of him, no matter how tiny the accomplishment. 

“I had a bath,” he says. And then, “also went to visit Andrew.”

He can’t quite bring himself to say _grave._ He doesn’t know why, exactly, just that the word seems too much. Maybe when he gets more used to going it’ll become easier to say, although it carries such a feeling of finality that he’s not sure it’ll ever be easy to say. Some words never are.

(Perhaps the reason is more like this: Andrew is gone, and Aaron is not, and some days he thinks it should be the other way around. It’s hard to think about Andrew’s grave when he knows there should be one for him, somewhere. He’s already dug it inside of himself.)

Katelyn is predictably delighted, and her excitement is enough to warm his insides. 

“We were gonna go to that forest tomorrow, though? Do you wanna postpone so you can rest after class?”

Oh, he’d forgotten about that. (Aaron’s been very good at forgetting things, lately.) A few days ago Katelyn had mentioned that she was planning to go to the forest to search for some plants she needs, and had asked if Aaron would like to go with her. And Aaron, wanting to spend time with her and wanting to be better, had tentatively agreed. Now, though, he doesn’t know if he’ll have the energy.

“Can i tell you tomorrow? See how I feel.”

“Yeah, sure! Just let me know in the morning or whenever.”

Aaron hums. Lets Katelyn chatter away for a while. Two of her classmates have finally gotten together after _months_ of pining. She found a really pretty flower today. There was a cat wandering across campus yesterday, and she was almost late to class because it was so soft and fluffy that she just had to pet it. It’s nice to hear about Katelyn’s life. She makes everything seem so gentle.

“Is Kevin with you?” she asks. For some reason Aaron had thought telling her about the Kevin issue was a good idea, and she’s never left him alone about it since. He hesitates, because answering may not be worth the inevitable teasing. 

The distinct pause is enough of an answer for her, though, and she giggles. “Are you watching over him?”

Aaron sighs. “He’s sleeping. I’m not quite that weird.”

“Are you sure?”

Her laughter floods the room, loud and full. It’s a good thing Aaron’s in his bedroom instead of the kitchen, still, because otherwise she might have woken Kevin up, and Aaron’s already dreading waking him in time for class, let alone having to deal with him being sleep-deprived and annoying.

His radio crackles suddenly, the monotone voice of the news reporter distorting into static. And then, 

rain.

Rain and the sound of a girl’s voice, humming. For a moment it feels like he’s back in the graveyard. 

But after a few seconds the news reporter is talking again, and something in him eases.

“Aaron? You okay?”

There was something important about that voice, he thinks. He feels strange. Off-kilter. 

“I’m fine,” he says, regardless. “Just my radio acting up.” 

“You could bring it with you tomorrow,” Katelyn suggests. “It’s relaxing, right? Maybe you’ll feel better if you have it on you.”

“Maybe.”

He can try, anyway. Betsy might have suggested he do something like that, a while ago. He can’t remember why he didn’t, but it’s a good idea. Something to think about.

-

you find the girl again, later. or perhaps it’s more accurate to say she finds you, because she settles herself down next to you on the bus with distinct purpose. normally you avoid the bus, because the driver looks like someone you knew before, and it makes your head hurt. but renee had pushed you onto it this morning and told you to wait for the right moment, whatever that’s supposed to mean, so here you are. on the bus, squished into a window seat. the barrier piece feels warm, in your pocket. burning. 

the girl’s wings are stained orange. singed at the tips. 

_hi,_ she whispers. her voice sounds like bells. _i’m robin._

you don’t know why she’s introducing herself now, when yesterday she seemed so reluctant to talk at all. perhaps she was just having a bad day. the rain had been heavy. cloying.

“so i heard,” you say. a few people near you pointedly glare in your direction for daring to disrupt the quiet, and you pull your mouth into a grin. it’s not as if you were shouting, but the bus makes no sound as it moves, so any sort of noise disturbs the stillness surrounding the passengers. whatever. dying has hardly made you feel less inclined to be deliberately annoying. 

robin frowns. the lights flicker, off and back on again. someone coughs. someone else is chewing gum, and it’s loud enough to be irritating. a buzz beneath your skin.

 _you’re not supposed to know that,_ she says. _who told you?_

you shrug. robin’s unlikely to know all of the dead here, and you have no idea what renee’s last name is. it’s possible she doesn’t have one, anymore; names are easy things to lose. if not for renee constantly using it you’d probably have lost yours by now, too. there are so many memories that have slipped from your grasp like sand. like water.

(water. your death was one of the memories to go, but you remember the water.)

“it was renee,” you tell her. maybe she’ll know, maybe she won’t. it’s not really your problem, either way.

robin’s swinging her legs, humming. she’s so tiny. you wonder how long she’s been here, doing this. how old she’s meant to be.

_renee? i thought she left._

that’s a little weird. you’ve thought about yourself moving on eventually, even though it terrifies you, but you’ve never considered the possibility of renee leaving. she seems to fit into this place like a puzzle piece. (and then, abruptly, you realise that renee doesn’t talk about her memories at all. you don’t know how long she’s been here, though it must have been a while, given her knowledge of how everything works. at least a little longer than you, definitely; she was the one to find you, when you had just woken up. your chest aches, quietly. you’re thinking too much. that’s all.)

the two of you sit in silence, for a time. the bus comes to a stop, the doors shuddering open. a cold wind whips past your hair, and you shiver. someone’s carrying an umbrella as they step onto the bus. they keep it up as they sit down, as if the rain has followed them inside. you hadn’t even noticed it was raining, but now you can hear it battering at the roof. you watch the raindrops chase each other down the window. does it rain, the other side of the barrier? a part of you will miss it.

 _did you like my gift?_ robin asks. it takes you a while to realise what she’s referring to, but the barrier piece squirms against your leg. it doesn’t seem like much of a gift, really, since the thought of having to move on is strange and unwelcome. you’ve been trying to avoid thinking about it too much since your conversation with renee. (you wonder if losing your memories means losing yourself. maybe being someone else would be better, in the end. but you’re trying, or you were trying before, at least, to be something more than the person you had been. is that worth nothing? you don’t know. it scares you.)

“no,” you answer, honestly. you’re not sure what to do with it, and it’s a difficult reminder that your memories won’t stay with you much longer. robin doesn’t appear to be listening, though; she’s leaning over you to look out of the window, wings fluttering in agitation. her feathers tickle your cheeks.

 _someone’s coming,_ she hisses. her nails lengthen into claws, and then she’s clambering across you and phasing through the window. a moment later she’s back, hands stained red, and you’re confused, kind of. confused and trying to tell yourself you don’t care.

“do you usually disappear mid-conversation?”

_only when i have to._

that’s not worrying at all. then again, it looks like robin can handle herself, even if you don’t really know what just happened. you hate not knowing things. still, she seems to be fine, so it doesn’t matter. she doesn’t need someone to protect her, and you don’t need someone to protect. (more like you don’t have anyone to protect anymore.)

_you should keep it with you._

“what?”

the bus screeches to a halt, and you lurch forward. the doors open again; you can hear birdcalls, through the rain. someone’s whistling. you hope they’re not about to get on the bus. it’s getting pretty full, actually, now that you’re looking. an old man squints at you from over the top of a newspaper, and you look away quickly. you wonder where the newspaper came from. it’s not like anything happens, here. nothing newsworthy.

_the barrier._

you don’t want to keep it. what you want to do is lock it in a tightly shut box and throw it into the ocean so you never have to see it again. does the ocean exist here? possibly. if you’re desperate enough you can force anything into existence, or so renee says. it’s why she has so many things.

“i’ll throw it away,” you say, just to test her reaction. she pauses, chin propped up in her hand. her fingers are tapping quietly.

 _you could,_ she says, after a while. _it’d be a waste._

“i don’t care.” 

(death is not a matter of want. you cannot run from this, and you know that, but the want still burns inside you. who will you be, once you forget? you’re terrified to find out.)

_you should bring it out._

you do not want to take a piece of the barrier out of your pocket on a crowded bus. that sounds like a bad idea. still, you’re curious, and it’s not like anyone will be looking that closely. hopefully. so you reach into your pocket, close your hand into a fist around the barrier piece, and draw it out. it’s buzzing, faintly. spinning.

robin holds her hand out, and you give her the piece. she taps it with her nail, gently, and presses it to your ear.

 _listen,_ she says. you listen. at first, all you can hear is the other people on the bus, and the rain on the roof. but gradually these fade. and there are voices, coming from inside the barrier piece. indiscernible, initially, and then hauntingly, achingly familiar. your lungs tighten.

“aaron?”

-

Aaron wakes in time to get Kevin up, who is predictably annoyed and irritable about being awake so early, but is happy enough to accept painkillers and breakfast, and he leaves with a quiet _thanks_ and a promise to text Aaron when he gets to class. He’ll probably forget, because Kevin usually does, but it’s the thought that counts. Aaron manages to go back to sleep again once Kevin’s gone, and he feels strangely restless when he wakes, so he texts Katelyn to let her know he feels okay to go to the forest today.

She responds with a thumbs up emoji, and a reminder that he’s only got one class today. 

Sometimes Aaron goes to class and just sits there doing nothing, losing time. Sometimes he doesn’t go at all. It’s a work in progress, and he is learning things, still. Just a little slower than everyone else. 

He meets Katelyn at their usual coffee shop, and hands her one of the cups he’s carrying. 

“Did you get your essay back?” he asks. He remembers her saying something about an essay, a while ago. Maybe. Katelyn is nodding, though, bright and enthusiastic, so he must have been somewhat accurate. Hearing about her day makes him feel a little lighter, too.

The pretty girl in her morning class smiled at her when she walked in. That annoying couple who are all over each other in the same place at the same time every day are fighting, apparently. Kevin actually showed up to class for once, and Aaron wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would he? No, because Aaron is _boring_ and never tells her anything.

“We were doing dissection, today,” he says, just to prove her wrong. She complains that telling her things after she’s already called him out doesn’t count, but he pretends not to hear her.

“Was it fun?”

Aaron wrinkles his nose. He’s not sure anything he does is really fun, at the moment. 

“It wasn’t bad,” he settles on, because it wasn’t. Unsettling, maybe, but not terrible. Not so awful he wishes he hadn’t bothered to show up, which is more than can be said for some of his classes. 

Katelyn continues to talk incessantly as they make their way to the forest,and Aaron occasionally joins in to let her know he’s still paying attention, but mostly he just listens. Her voice is good to listen to. Soothing. 

Once they reach the forest, Katelyn spreads a map out over the ground and studies it carefully.

“Are you okay with splitting up?” she asks. “To save time.”

Aaron sits. Thinks. It’ll probably be fine; he has a map, he has his phone, and he has his radio to keep him company.

(It starts like this: Katelyn is yelling plant names to him while they head in opposite directions, and Aaron is yelling at her to shut up because she’s already given him a pretty extensive list, when his radio crackles again, and a confused voice says

“Aaron?”

and Aaron stops breathing, for a moment. Katelyn’s disappeared, already, and Aaron is shaking like a dandelion in summer, because that was - 

that was -

“Andrew?”)

This can’t be happening. Andrew is dead, Aaron _watched him die,_ and yet somehow Andrew is here, at the other end of the radio. He’s dreaming. He has to be. Either that or he’s hallucinating, which could be plausible, honestly, and something to talk to Betsy about because _what the fuck,_ why is he still so fucked up -

“Stop,” Andrew says. Aaron stops. The world condenses into his heartbeat. It’s pounding in his ears, loud and insistent. His hand tightens around the radio.

He has so many questions. So many places to start. Has Andrew secretly been alive this whole time? Is Aaron somehow psychic? Aaron’s just losing his mind, probably. He was halfway there already. 

“What the fuck,” is what he manages to spit out. Judging by the silence, it seems like Andrew is just as clueless.

And then there’s a girl, speaking. Her voice is every sound at once, and also like no sound he’s ever heard.

_This is a gift. Your brother, he needs to move on. I thought it would be good to let him speak with you._

Aaron has to be dreaming. It can’t be anything else. But if this is a dream, then - there are so many things he regrets, with Andrew. So many things he’d never had the courage to say, and then Andrew was gone and the world seemed so huge, in his absence. So empty.

“My brother’s a fool,” Andrew says, to the girl. “He should look around him. He is never as alone as he thinks he is.”

(And Aaron realises, stunned, that Andrew must have regrets, too.)

“My brother,” he starts. Stops. He has so many things to say they all grasp his throat and choke him. “My brother made a promise,” he says, finally. “And I am grateful that he kept it as well as he did.”

(it’s clumsy. Awkward. Strange. But Aaron is burning. and tired of walking backwards. This is enough. It has to be.)

-

it’s warm. so warm. 

you wake up to bright, brilliant sunshine, and an ache in your ribcage, tears drying on your cheeks. why were you crying? you don’t remember. the light feels nice, on your skin. soft. something’s missing, though. you’re sure of it.

the sky rips open as you sit up, gingerly.

it’s raining. beneath your feet, flowers burst into life.


End file.
